


femme fatale.

by gary-queen (sharlook)



Category: The World's End (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Swearing, gnc Gary, very very brief and vague mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharlook/pseuds/gary-queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically their school has rules about not wearing makeup, but no one really pays attention, and Gary's never really been one to follow the rules anyway.  (In which Gary is a precious gnc child, prettymuch. )</p>
            </blockquote>





	femme fatale.

**Author's Note:**

> one time i drew simon pegg in a dress and then it kinda escalated and i have never been happier
> 
> EDIT: now with art by the lovely spaceflowrr on tumblr!!!! http://gary-queen.tumblr.com/post/144054256275

 

Technically their school has rules about not wearing makeup, but no one really pays attention, and Gary's never really been one to follow the rules anyway. 

He starts small - just little things, stuff he'd wear around the house. One day he comes into school with his nails painted jet black and a cheap plastic choker around his neck - nothing fancy, but he still watches people look at him out of the corner of his eye and if he swallows a little too hard when someone raises their eyebrows, well, nobody seems to notice. His reputation as unflappable is preserved, which is the important part. The other important part is that he looks badass, which he's pretty confident he does.

In English he hears snickers behind him and starts to pick at his painted nails, absent-mindedly. Andy elbows him in the ribs. 

"Oi." he murmurs. "Don't do that. They look nice." 

Gary smiles, sits up a little straighter in his seat. "You bet they fuckin' do."

 

 

(He does it for two reasons - partly to fight the system (!!) but mostly because it's a confidence boost. He'll sit around his room in a floral shirt he picked up off some girl and listen to the same songs he's heard a hundred times and paint his nails. It's kind of therapeutic, he thinks. Maybe. He's no psychologist and he doesn't want to be. But there's something calming about it, and plus his hands look really pretty.

The shirt is nice and comfy too, low cut and made from some kind of delicate fabric he doesn't know the name of. He hasn't worn it around the boys yet, although he's considering it. He reckons they'd probably be fine with it. Probably. (Read: hopefully.) O-man might be a little lost but then again, that's O-man.

He just doesn't want to run the risk of losing them. Man might not be able to live off cute shirts and alcohol alone, but if he needs to then he'll bloody well try, and that option's been looming a little too close to home lately.)

 

So he keeps wearing lacy socks under his DMs and keeping red lipstick under his bed (mostly for the days when he needs to see red on his arms, when he promised not to pick up the razor, the days he draws hundreds of red tally marks across his hips and legs and pretends he can feel cold metal. He hopes he can wear it out on the town, though. Someday.) He saves his high-waisted shorts another day, because wearing them out just isn't worth the hassle, no matter how great his legs look. 

 

And then at some point he decides he's just gonna go for it, because he's Gary fucking King and if he wants to wear Sam's platform heels on a night out he's going to fucking do it, no matter what people say, and he's going to look fucking amazing. 

 

The shoes are ridiculously tall, all shiny black lamper straps and silver buckles, and they make his already small ankles look tiny, but then there's that surge of confidence like he could crush anyone who fucks with him beneath his heel. (Actually, looking at these shoes he probably could. These things could do some serious damage.) They're about six inches but he feels ten feet tall, towering and powerful and graceful. He feels like.... well, he can't quite put his finger on it, but it's good, whatever it is, and it resonates deep in his chest, pulls his chin up, regal and all-consuming. 

Femme fatale. Or homme fatale, he guesses. It doesn't matter. Just that electrifying anticipation. 

 

 

He meets the lads at The Beehive, a mix of anxiety and optimism sitting in the pit of his stomach. Hopefully Oliver won't notice he's nicked Sam's shoes. They're a size too big for her anyway. (He thinks.) 

Stephen blinks at him for a second. "I swear you weren't that tall this morning." 

Gary grins a little too forcefully and waits for it to click, watches their eyes travel down his legs (which, in his defense, look damn good right now) and tries not to think about how badly this could potentially go. 

There's a long pause before Andy finally says, "You're gonna break your fucking neck in those things." 

There's a general hum of agreement and Gary feels like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders, lets out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "I can walk in these, it's fine."

"Yeah, but not drunk."

"Fuck off, Pete." (He's still smiling, though.)

(Femme fatale.)

 

 

Pete turns out to be right. Although Gary, as always, refuses to believe it.

"They're fine. Fine. They're like docs, you have to break them in!" he slurs, leaning against the wall. His feet are probably bleeding a little, but eh. At least he looks hot. (At least he feels hot. Red and bright and burning, bright enough to blind you. This, he thinks, is what life is about.)

"This is literally the fifth time you've fallen over tonight." Pete laughs. (To be honest, he's not really one to talk, six-inch heels or not. Stumbly little bastard.)

"A king never falls."

"Except for those times when you just did."

"Stop fucking with my metaphors, Pete."

He pushes himself off the wall, taking a second to balance himself before picking up his pint. (Okay, maybe it's more than a second. He can dream, dammit.) "Now if you'l excuse me, I need to go find a table to dance on." 

The shoes click on the stone floor as he walks away.

"Have fun breaking your neck then!" Pete calls, but he doesn't pay any attention. 

 

Toe-heel, toe-heel.

 

This is what life is about. 


End file.
